He used to be remembered as a mediocre president from Ohio. Now he will be remembered as a
mediocre president from Ohio who nicknamed one of his body parts “Jerry.”

Look, I don’t make the rules on presidential legacies. I just know that a president, unless he
won a war or died tragically or had unusual charisma, is reduced largely to one or two anecdotes in
popular memory.

Presidents claimed by Ohio haven’t fared particularly well in this game.

William Howard Taft: got stuck in a bathtub.

William Henry Harrison: failed to wear a hat at his inauguration, caught pneumonia and died a
month later.

See what I mean? It’s a wonder anyone runs for the office.

Harding, who was from Marion, served for about two years, then died suddenly in 1923 during a
cross-country trip. His administration was plagued by scandals involving his appointees; when
historians rank presidents, he usually finishes near the bottom.

But now come the steamy letters written by Harding to his mistress, Carrie Fulton Phillips.
Excerpts first appeared in a 2009 book, but last week the full text of the letters was placed
online by the Library of Congress for all to see. (Read them — if you can — at www.loc.gov. Harding
had terrible handwriting.)

Harding regales his lover with poetry (I love your poise /
Of perfect thighs /
When they hold me /
in paradise). He compliments her “pillowing breasts.” And he keeps her regularly informed
on the state of his excitable little friend Jerry (“Jerry . . . told me to say that you are the
best and darlingest in the whole world.”)

Phillips’ replies did not survive, but I can well imagine her saying: “I love you, too, darling,
but could you stop calling your manhood Jerry? It sounds like a ventriloquist’s dummy.”

I’m waiting for the letters to touch off a fierce debate among historians about whether Harding’s
relevant body part has a chance of surpassing that of Bill Clinton as the most famous sex organ in
presidential history. In the meantime, some experts are saying the letters have helped to humanize
Harding — as if that were a good thing.

It’s not.

For presidents to loom large in American history, they have to hope we forget their human
qualities and turn them into gods. That’s why the deification of Ronald Reagan won’t be complete
until all who remember him as decidedly human are dead.

Harding has no shot at anything like that. But his letters might at least crowd a scandal or two
out of thumbnail histories of him. From now on, we must make room for Jerry.